Entry #001: The Awakening
Some stories begin in bed.
Ours began with a joke.
My roommate had started hanging out with this vibrant, chaotic girl—let’s call her D. One night, with her feet kicked up and half a margarita in hand, she tossed out a line that changed everything:
“We should totally sell feet pics. I bet some dude would pay rent just to sniff my toes.”
We all laughed.
But something about it lingered.
See, I’d already been playing with the idea of getting involved in OnlyFans—not as a creator, but as a manager. I wanted to help women build power around their image, their pleasure, their content. I even thought about creating an account for my spa—a space to post content that Instagram’s prudish algorithms would never allow.
So I looked at D, half-teasing, half-not, and said:
“If you’re serious, I’ll manage you.”
At first, it felt like a fun little hustle. But the more I researched, the deeper I went. I started studying content trends, engagement strategies, platform algorithms, pay-per-view tricks. And somewhere along the line, I had a moment of truth:
If I really wanted to guide other women through this world, I couldn’t do it from the sidelines.
I had to get in the arena.
I had to become the thing I was asking them to become.
So I created my own account.
At first, it was just for research.
Fieldwork. Data collection. R&D.
That’s what I told myself, anyway.
But once I started filming—me touching myself, sucking Dan’s cock, arching my back and hitting record—something in me snapped awake. I wasn’t just making content. I was creating a mirror. And when I looked into it, I didn’t see shame or hesitation.
I saw power.
And I liked it.
A lot.
It was almost autosexual—editing my own videos turned me on more than watching porn ever did. I got wet reliving the scenes I created. Every moan, every angle, every knowing look—it was mine. Mine to craft. Mine to control. Mine to crave.
Dan—Mister—has always seen this part of me, even when I didn’t. Since the very beginning, over 13 years ago, he’s talked to me about polyamory. About openness. About desire as something expansive, not exclusive.
Back then, I wasn’t ready.
I’d just had a child. I was exhausted, emotionally scattered, and drowning in the invisible labor of early motherhood. I told him:
“Not right now.
We have to work on us first.”
And we did.
We spent a decade in the trenches—healing childhood wounds, navigating parenthood, building trust brick by brick. And quietly, alongside all of it, I was doing my own shadow work. Confronting shame. Unpacking religion. Reclaiming my body. Getting hot again—not for others, but for me.
And slowly, that door started to reopen.
We downloaded the dating apps.
We went to Exxxotica.
We started saying yes to experiences we once only fantasized about.
We met fascinating people—people who stretched our boundaries, lit our curiosity on fire, and held up mirrors we didn’t expect to look into.
And I started having firsts again.
First time letting someone else touch me.
First time letting Mister watch.
First time realizing that kink wasn’t just about sex—it was about identity.
Once you’ve had your soul cracked open by DMT,
once someone has poured a decade of unconditional love into dismantling your walls,
once you’ve looked in the mirror and finally liked who you saw…
everything changes.
This year isn’t about chaos. It’s not about being reckless or wild for the sake of it.
It’s about sovereignty.
It’s about reclamation.
It’s about learning how many different ways a person can feel love—and how many places that love can live.
We’re not just fucking other people.
We’re meeting them.
We’re learning through them.
And I’m meeting myself in ways I never thought possible.
There’s still so much to learn. So much to taste. So many new parts of me to wake up.
But here’s what I know:
